Like our new president, my longtime husband is brown-skinned and biracial--a black man for all practical purposes--and I am approximately the same age and height as our new first lady. We also have two lovely daughters, but ours are older, almost seventeen and twelve now. The similarities end there for the most part. I'm white; I wear tee-shirts and jeans; I'm treated for anxiety; and I tutor part-time in a college writing center.
Last February, we pulled up to a motel on the outskirts of Memphis, on a weekend trip to watch our older daughter's varsity basketball team play in the sub-state tournament. Second-born Adele asked, "So there's an indoor pool?"
"I think so."
"Awesome!"
"True dat!" I said, for fun.
"Stop it, Mama."
"What? I can say that."
"No. You can't."
"Why can't I? There's nothing wrong with that."
My husband answered for her. "It's not something you say when you're a middle-aged white woman."
"That is so mean!" I said in disbelief. "I can't believe you just called me that."
"What? That's what you are," he said as we got out of the car. "What do you think you are? A hip, young black woman?"
"Um. Yes!" I shut my door assertively. "Don't ever call me that other thing again."
He shook his head, chuckling. Since then, Steve and the girls regularly refer to me as a hip, young black woman, which I do appreciate. I want to be whoever I want to be, and I don't want anyone to put me in a stifling box where I'm expected to talk and act and dress a certain way. I want to be free to imagine the whole world, to try to understand and laugh with everyone in it.
